


A Count Ability

by lilsherlockian1975



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confessions, Drinking, Drunklock, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Love, New Year's Eve, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock, numbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/pseuds/lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Sherlock and Molly find themselves alone and a tiny bit drunk(ish) on New Year's Eve. This leads to a game of numbers and suddenly Sherlock reveals something that Molly can hardly believe. A gift for OhAiné.





	A Count Ability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhAine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/gifts).



> So, here's a little Drunk!Lock for OhAiné, my lovely accountant friend, because… numbers. Hope you like it, Ainé. Love you bunches! No real warnings except for some silliness and sex. Huge thanks to MizJoely for betaing it for me. Any and all mistakes belong to me!
> 
> I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

"God, that's funny!" Molly giggled, tickled by the way Sherlock… what had he done that had made her laugh? Trying to remember what had been said (or done) just a few seconds before, Molly looked around the room.  _Aw well…_  it was funny, whatever it was.

He was sat on the floor in front of the fireplace at 221B, his back against his chair, hers against John's. The fire crackled and logs shifted in the grate, otherwise the flat was fairly quiet except for their occasional conversation and the clink of glass on glass. There was no shouting, no arguing with his blogger and no wall shooting (something she'd never witnessed but had heard about in great detail). Mrs. Hudson was out on a date, according to Sherlock; John and Rosie were spending New Years with his sister and her new girlfriend. Molly was feeling pretty relaxed, but not drunk.  _Definitely not drunk. Wait, how'd this happen?_

"Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Mmmm...?" His gaze was still focused on the fire.

"Why are we drinking?"

Lazily turning his head to face her, he said, "I was bored and you were jealous that you had missed out on seeing me drunk at John's stag." He downed another shot. "You said, 'I did all the math and you two had all the fun!'" When he finished doing a fairly good impression of her, he poured a drink and handed her the glass. "Besides, it's New Year's Eve. Isn't this what people do?"

"I suppose." Molly nodded.  _That sounds about right._  She tossed back the shot.  _But wait...!_ "You shouldn't be drinking," she said, her speech slowed, but not slurred. "Should you?"

Sherlock waved her off. "It's fine. I've never had a drinking problem, Molly. I'm a drug addict, not an alcoholic."

She gasped. "You admitted it!"

"Indeed." He swallowed the cheap white wine they had brought from her place. "I've been drunk exactly six times in my life. I've been high..." He thought for a moment before finishing, "...forty-seven times."

"You remember the  _actual_ number?"

"I remember lots of things, Molly Hooper."

She giggled again, not sure why but him saying her whole name seemed funny, for some reason.  _Maybe I should slow down_ … "Okay,  _Mister Memory_ , how many cases have you solved?"

"Since John, or all together?"

"Um, just since John."

"Two hundred fifty-five."

That seemed a little high, but Molly was pretty sure she was a  _little_  drunk, so…

"That's the number of cases I've solved since I  _met_ John. That includes smaller cases, like the ones we had the day you and I worked together, Molly. Not all of them require me to even leave the flat. He's assisted me with seventy-four of them."

He was awfully articulate for someone who was supposed to be getting drunk. Either he had a higher tolerance for alcohol than her (which seemed unlikely considering how many times he'd been drunk) or he hadn't had as much as she thought. As if on cue, Sherlock poured himself another shot, tossing it back.

"Any other questions?" he asked with a smirk as he poured a shot for her.

"Ah…" She wanted to stump him, oh, how she wanted to stump the cocky detective!  _I've got it!_  "How many times have you been to St. Barts?"

"One hundred ninety-four times." He took a drink of wine. "Since you started working, I should add. I have no idea how many times I went there prior to that."

 _Damn… I thought I had him!_  Something about what he just said seemed important, but Molly's buzzed mind couldn't quite grab ahold of it.

"I've watched you do twenty-four autopsies and you've assisted me in solving forty-eight murders. Are you going to drink that?" he asked, pointing to the small glass in her hand.

"Oh, yeah…" Molly threw back the liquor, enjoying the burn, as she tried to think of another question. "Okay, how about this? How many times have you humiliated John or made him look like an idiot?" Feeling slightly lightheaded, she drew a deep breath. She wasn't pissed or anything, but she was really starting to feel it.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Well, that's a bit subjective, isn't it? Also, humiliating him and making him look like an idiot are two different things."

How could he think so clearly as he downed shot after shot?

"According to  _his_ assessment and complaints, I've humiliated him ten times and made him look like an idiot more like thirty. But he tends to be a bit whiny, so..."

 _Ohhh, those numbers are more general!_  This felt like a small victory to the slightly drunken Molly. She smiled, feeling pretty proud of herself. When she looked back at Sherlock, he too was smiling... and staring at her.

"His skin isn't quite as thick as yours, is it?" he said.

 _What_?

His smile suddenly dropped. "I've insulted you twenty-five times in the presence of at least one other person and four times in a group of three or more. And you always took it, didn't you? Stoically, bravely." He looked away. "Until that Christmas, of course."

Molly followed his eyes and realised he was looking at the exact spot she had stood when she called him out on his atrocious behaviour. She stared at the floor for a moment before looking back at Sherlock, to find his gaze once again on her.

"You, Molly Hooper, have told me off nine times," he smirked. "No one sees past my bullshit better than you. Not even John." Taking a long drink of wine he moved, he turned his body towards her. "Come on, this is fun. I didn't mean to bring the mood down. Ask me more questions."

The atmosphere  _was_  different, though, and she wasn't sure how to bring back the levity. But after a moment a question popped into her head, and she asked, "Okay, how many pranks have you pulled on your brother?"

Sherlock grinned, a lovely mischievous grin. "In our lives?" She could see him crunching the numbers in his head. "Three hundred twenty-four- no, three hundred twenty-six."

Molly laughed. "That poor man!"

"Poor man, indeed. He once paid all the shops within a ten-mile radius to NOT sell me cigarettes."

"So? You probably just had one of your homeless people do it."

"Oh, don't underestimate Mycroft Holmes. He'd paid them, too. You should have seen Billy walking around in one of my brother's old Armani jackets." He rolled his eyes.

She thought she was going to fall over she laughed so hard. When they both had calmed down, Molly, once again, tried to think of a question that could trip up the genius with the eidetic memory. Then, she had a  _very_ naughty idea…

Grabbing the bottle of Talisker she poured herself a drink. The wine they had brought from her place, but Sherlock had provided the expensive liquor. She needed a little Dutch courage to ask the next question. After tossing it back, she asked, "How many times have you masturbated?"

Sherlock, still laughing at his brother's well-executed prank, turned to her, sobering slightly. "We're getting rather personal now, aren't we, Molly?"

He stared at her and she felt her cheeks heat up, but she wasn't going to answer what she assumed was a rhetorical question. She could have asked how many times he'd had sex or how many people he'd slept with, but most people knew that number. This was nothing more than an attempt to challenge him… nothing more…  _nothing_. It was up to him if he wanted to continue to play the game.

"Hmm… I think you've finally got me there, Molly," he said, pulling his eyes away from her and topping off his wine. "I'm not sure how many times I've masturbated... in my life."

A feeling of elation started to rise in Molly's chest.  _Ha! You don't remember everything, do you Mister…_

"I  _do,_ however..." he said, interrupting her internal celebration. The look in his eyes was completely foreign. It caused goosebumps to alight on her flesh. "... know how many times I've touched myself whilst thinking about  _you_. Would you be interested in that number, by chance?"

Suddenly her mouth was parched. Was he fucking with her? Was he trying to win this game...somehow? Was it even a game, anymore? She nodded, completely against her will, and Sherlock gave her the dirtiest of smirks.

"Since the day we met, Molly Hooper, I have masturbated four hundred and ninety-seven times whilst thinking of you."

"Wh-what?"

"You heard me." He casually took another drink of wine as if he'd not just said something completely outrageous to her. "Curious about any other…  _numbers_?"

She nodded again, unable to make her mouth utter the word 'yes'.

"You have been the cause of twenty-seven spontaneous erections in the morgue or lab. John thinks I wear that damn coat in July because of the pockets." He laughed. "Oh no, it's because of you,  _my dear pathologist_."

Stunned silence. Molly sat staring at the man like she was seeing him for the first time.

"Let's talk about averages, shall we?" The question must have once again been rhetorical, because he didn't wait for an answer. "I think about kissing you an average of ten times a day. It's increased, of course, the longer I've known you." He was starting to look (and sound) a little manic. "I think about your breasts - their shape, their weight, the texture of your skin, the colour of your areolas - approximately four times a day. Your asre fills my mind at least twice a day, depending on what you're wearing and if I see you socially."

He drained the rest of his glass and took a deep breath. "And as much as I try - and I do try, Molly, have tried - I  _cannot_ stop thinking about  _how you must taste_." The last four words came out in a near growl. "It occupies my mind a dozen times a week. And when all of this comes together in one gloriously frustrating moment, I take myself in hand and imagine what it must be like to have you. I picture you underneath me on my bed, riding me in that chair," He motioned to the piece of furniture behind him, "bent over the counter in the lab as I fuck you from behind."

His eyes were a little glazed over as he looked across the room. "I've imagined us in my kitchen, you on my counter, your nails digging into my back as I pound up into you. In the lifts at St. Barts, in the backseat of a cab and, for some fucked-up reason, in my childhood bed at my parent's house. I'm sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with that, but there you have it."

When he finished, he poured the remainder of the wine into his glass and downed it in one gulp, keeping his eyes on a point just beyond her.

She had absolutely no idea what to say. Gobsmacked wasn't a strong enough word to describe how she felt. She was stunned and shocked and more than a little turned on. How on Earth was she supposed to respond to that? Mostly, she didn't believe him. It was all too unreal. It simply wasn't possible that he wanted her… like that... in all those ways…

" _You're lying_ ," she whispered before she could stop herself.

He laughed, his eyes still not focused on her. "Ironically, I'm  _not_ lying, Molly. Not this time. No, you know what, it's not irony. Much more like me  _fucking_ myself like I always do."

Where had this filthy mouth come from? And what in fuck's name was he talking about now? "What is?"

Finally, he turned and looked at her. "I have only lied to you once, Molly. Only one time in our relationship have I told you an untruth, and it was the worst possible time I could have done it."

"When did you lie to me?" she asked, although she was almost afraid of the answer.

A beat passed, perhaps two.

"When I told you that I didn't mean it.  _That_ was the lie."

_God!_

"I did mean it- I do… mean it." This time, he was looking down at his own lap.

" _You meant it?_ " she whispered. "What I made you s-say?"

He shook his head. "The fact that you had to  _make_ me say it…" A mirthless laugh escaped him as he raised his head. "I have been a coward, Molly. More than happy to use the image, the memory, the  _thought_ of you to satisfy my body's needs - even my emotional needs to some extent - all the while keeping you at a distance, never admitting aloud how I really felt. My sister realised it after spending one evening with me. I was so transparent… to her." He looked away. "Of course, I was high, my defenses down. I don't even remember everything. It's possible that I..."

"Sherlock!"

His head jerked towards her. "Right, sorry."

She took a deep breath. "What… what are you trying…"

"I'm trying to say, Molly, that I love you and I want you and I have fucked this all up. Over and over again, I've buggered this whole thing up. If I was a normal man - a man who knew how to pursue a woman and treat her right - I would have asked you on an  _actual_ date. I would have kissed you years ago and we would have made love  _so many times_  by now." He exhaled, looking defeated as he raked his hands through his hair. "But I'm  _not…_ normal, whatever the hell that is. I'm an addict, I'm emotionally stunted, I'm inexperienced in relationships and  _completely_ undeserving of your lo…"

She'd heard enough. She started to move somewhere around 'emotionally stunted' and straddled his lap, cutting off his tirade as she placed her hands on either side of his face. "Are you drunk?"

He shook his head. "No, not really. I am buzzed, but not drunk. Are you?"

She bit her lip. "Nope. Although I'm starting to think I'm having an out of body experience," she said with a laugh. "And you're not lying?"

"No. I swear it."

"About anything?"

He suddenly looked sheepish. "Okay, I may have been making up  _some_ of those numbers. Though I do believe that I'm close… for the most part."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed.

"You did not."

"I was suspicious…"

Sherlock smirked, snaking his arms around her back. "You're on my lap, Molly."

"They don't call you The Great Detective for nothing, Sherlock."

"You're so damn  _pretty_ ," he said, causing Molly to blush and look away. "You are, you know. Pretty and tiny and lovely. I want to scoop you up and…" He stopped speaking. His tongue came out, wetting his lips.

"What, Sherlock? What do you want to do to me?" she asked in a sultry voice that she almost didn't recognise.

Evidently time for talk was over (and to be fair, he had just detailed exactly what he wanted to do to her, so the question was somewhat redundant). Sherlock reached up, carefully pulling out the elastic band that held her hair in a ponytail, then combed his fingers through her long, thick locks.

He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I've always wanted to do that," he said before nudging her closer to him. " _Molly_..." Her name was whispered just as their lips touched.

It was soft and sweet. She'd never been kissed quite so reverently before; certainly not after a night of drinking. He slid his lips over hers in a series of kisses. Not one, but several, raining on her lips, the corner of her mouth, her cheeks, her chin, then back to her mouth. It was all still chaste, still… sweet.

His hands were buried in her hair, holding her close to him. Molly had moved her hands down to his chest to those poor, pitifully abused buttons that seemed to be barely holding on most of the time. She popped one opened then pulled away to look at her progress.  _Mmmm…_ She opened the next one, sneaking her index finger into the gap she had created.  _Skin… Sherlock's skin._

"Having fun?" he asked, pulling her from her exploration.

"I am actually." She unbuttoned his shirt further, then looked up into his eyes. "I've thought about you too, you know?"

He raised a challenging eyebrow.

Molly leant forward until her lips made contact with his long, elegant neck. In the process she had scooted forward a couple of inches on his lap, finally making contact with his erection. He was already hard for her!

Sherlock bucked up as Molly sucked his throat. " _God_ ," he groaned, his hands moving to her back, pushing up her shirt.

When he touched her skin, Molly ground down even harder against him. She moved her mouth from his neck back to his lips. "Want you," she spoke against them.

In an instant, Molly was flat on her back, Sherlock hovering over her. Somehow, he had changed their position and she'd hardly felt a thing.  _Like a sex ninja!_

"Are you sure, Molly? I can't… If we do this, I won't be able to go back…"

"Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"Because…" He looked at her with such longing it made her chest ache. "Because for me it's always been you and I never had the courage… not like you did." His head fell to her chest and Molly wrapped her arms around his back, holding him tight.

"Oh, Sherlock. This isn't…  _just_ about courage." She kissed the top of his head. "It's about growth. You're not the same man you used to be and I'm not the same either."

"I've been a coward," he whispered against her breast.

"You're the bravest man I know. But this takes a different kind of bravery, yeah?"

He nodded, kissing her chest through her tee shirt. Molly rubbed her hands up and down his back in an attempt to soothe him. Though she was still turned on - still wanted him badly - she could see that his emotional confession had cost him quite a lot. Consummation may not be in the cards, regardless of his erotic outburst earlier.

Sherlock quickly pulled away, getting to his feet. As he held out a hand to her he said, "Our first time won't be on the cold, hard floor, Molly." The look in his eyes was unimaginably intense.

She took his hand and let him pull her up. When they were face to face Sherlock brushed her hair off of her shoulders. "I want you," he whispered. "Will you let me have you?"

 _Oh, fuck yes!_  she thought, but instead answered with, "Only if I can have you, too."

"You've had me, Molly, since the day you  _saw_ me. That's when I finally gave in to what my body had been telling me for more than a year. It's why I came to you," he said, then added, "Well, it's one of the reasons."

"Then you left."

"When I came back, you'd moved on."

"I don't want to talk about the past anymore, Sherlock," she said, more than ready to move on to better things.

"I couldn't agree more." Taking her hand, he led her out of the room and down the hall.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Once in his bedroom, he stood, simply staring for several long moments, unspeaking. It didn't take long for Molly to start feeling self-conscious. "Umm, Sherlock, what…?"

"And you're real?"

She smiled at that, thinking about all the times Sherlock had imagined this scenario (and how many times she had too!). "I am, Sherlock."

Then he was upon her, quickly pulling her shirt over her head, tossing it to the floor. " _One,"_ he whispered as he stared at her lace covered breasts.

"What?"

He shook his head absently as his hand danced around her waist and up her back until he reached her bra. Unhooking the closures, he said, " _Two."_

She started to ask again why he was counting, but was stopped as he growled the word " _Three"_  before ducking his head. His eyes closed as he took her nipple into his mouth.

Molly suddenly didn't care  _why_ he was counting, she only cared about his mouth, his teeth, his tongue. Digging her fingers into his lush locks, she held him close lest he try to escape. He was making her tremble and she was afraid that her legs might give out. She needed to get this point across to the man… somehow. He released her nipple, only to mumble a word into the cleavage he had just created by pushing her breasts together. She couldn't understand it, but assumed it was another number. Molly said his name almost plaintively, hoping that he would understand that she was about to fall over.

Instead of responding, he opened his eyes and glanced up from his task, a playfully dangerous look dancing in those multi-colored irises. " _Five,"_  he whispered. Gripping her hips, Sherlock turned her, pushing her up against the closed door. His eyes dropped to her mouth for a split second, then his lips were on hers once again. He tasted every inch of her mouth, learning what she liked. She could almost see him making mental notes about what made her shiver and what made her moan. Molly tried to keep up with his exploration, but failed. Finally, she just gave in and allowed him to take what he wanted. She was certainly willing to give it.

Slowing the kiss after what felt like an eternity, Sherlock drew a sharp breath before whispering "Six" into her mouth. He nipped at her lips, then across her jaw to her throat. With a deep hum, he sucked onto the skin of her neck, just under her ear.

 _God!_  He was marking her and she was well aware of this fact as his teeth bit into her flesh; she simply didn't care.  _Let him stake his claim; I'm already his._

When he pulled back, he smirked and said, "Eight," overemphasising the 't'.

 _What happened to seven?_  "Sherlock… why…?" Molly tried again to ask about the numbers, but was stopped when he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands very busy with the button and zip of her fly.

Her jeans were gone in seconds, along with her socks (her shoes had been removed when they first sat down in front of the fire) and Molly was left in nothing but completely boring cotton knickers.  _At least they're French cut,_  she thought she as watched Sherlock look back up from her feet, his hands stroking her thighs gently as his eyes raked over her legs.

" _Mmmm_ , thirteen." His face was now parallel with her centre. "My lucky number, it seems," he murmured as his nose touched her cloth covered mound and he inhaled deeply.

Molly couldn't help but giggle. Not at the fact that he was smelling her arousal - that was incredibly hot - but because of what he'd said. Even though she was more turned on than she had ever been in her entire life, the concept of Sherlock calling anything 'lucky' struck her as funny.

He cut his eyes up at her as he started pulling the lavender coloured cotton down her legs and Molly's giddiness died. Never looking down at what he was doing, he helped her step out of her pants, just as he had with her jeans. He stared up at her for several moments and though his face was expressionless, his eyes burned.

She swallowed, realising that she no longer felt the least bit tipsy. Evidently a sex-focused Sherlock (and his attentions) had quickly sobered her.

"Perhaps fourteen is my lucky number, actually," he said, his gaze falling on her naked quim.

Thankfully, she had recently groomed. Her neatly trimmed pubis seemed to please the man kneeling at her feet as he grinned and licked his lips. When those lips touched the inside of her thigh, Molly sighed, dropping her head to the door behind her. More kisses were placed on her other thigh, her hip bones, her belly. Then she felt him pick up her left leg, resting it on his shoulder.

"Twenty," she heard him say before he spread her and kissed her already primed clitoris.

Molly bucked away from the door and into Sherlock's face, but he pushed her back into place as his tongue chased her, working its way through her folds. When her hands had moved to his hair she didn't know, but when she next looked down, she was gripping his curly locks tightly, holding him close as he licked her pussy.

" _Fuck!"_  she shouted, her orgasm just out of reach.

Sherlock pulled away, causing her to whine piteously. "Twenty-one," he said as he stood, his hands moving to his shirt. There were only five buttons left to undo since Molly had started on it in the front room. Once it was gone, he took her hand and led her to the bed.

Molly lay down and watched Sherlock step out of his trousers revealing his very erect, very lovely, very impressive penis. "No pants?" she asked.

The man just smirked as he toed off his socks before joining her. He lay on top of her, letting his cock brush her wet centre. He whispered, "Twenty-three," as he lowered his head to hers. Clearly he was counting in between the numbers he was announcing out loud, but Molly didn't have a clue as to what each of them signified.

Nor did she care any longer.

As he kissed her she tasted herself on his lips and tongue. She didn't mind. Normally she wasn't really into letting a guy kiss her after going down on her, but this was different…  _he_ was different.

Sherlock's tongue swept through her mouth, determinedly seeking out hers as if he was desperate for nothing more than the sweetness of her breath and the sound of her moans. Molly lost herself in his kiss; keeping up was a challenge but one she was eager to accept.

Her hands raked down his back, lower and lower until she met his perfect bottom. She grabbed on like she might never let go (and in all honesty, she might not!).

Sherlock bucked forward, his cock slipping through her folds as he grunted and released her lips. "I don't have any condoms, Molly. Do you?" He seemed to be holding on by the slightest thread of control. But then again, so was she.

"Ah, fuck! No!" She hadn't let go of his arse, couldn't let go if someone was standing next to the bed with a gun to her head.

"I was tested two months ago. I'm clean. You're still on birth control, correct?"

She had only had sex twice since Tom and had been tested after both. She was clean too, but did notice that Sherlock hadn't even questioned her. "Yes. The pill, but it's not entirely effective…"

"I'm willing to take the chance if you are?" he said before kissing her neck just below her ear. "I wouldn't be opposed to seeing your belly swollen with my child, if I'm completely honest."

His accompanying filthy chuckle caused her internal muscles to contract. She wasn't entirely sure if he was being truthful or just trying to convince her to let him fuck her. She almost didn't care.

Doing some  _very_ quick math, she decided that she should be safe; it wasn't her most fertile time of the month should her birth control fail. "Okay. Yeah." Giving his heavenly arse one final squeeze, she moved her hands up to his head, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging. "I want you, Sherlock," she said, pulling him back so she could look him in the eyes.

He smiled, kissed her once again, then leant up just enough to wedge his hand between them.

Molly had a split second of fear. What if she didn't meet his expectations? What if she  _couldn't_? He'd been thinking about this for… years, it seemed. His brilliant mind had created some sort of 'fantasy Molly' and she was just…

But her anxiety was abruptly put to rest as Sherlock slid into her to the hilt in one smooth stroke, stretching her, filling her perfectly.

He growled, moaned, then mumbled a number into her neck.

 _How is he still counting?_  she wondered,  _and what number is he on?_ Her questions ended as he pulled out, almost completely, and thrust back in. Sliding his arms under her shoulders, Sherlock locked them together, anchoring himself to her before his next thrust.

His face next to her ear, he whispered, "God, Molly, it's even better than I imagined," as he twisted his hips, hitting her sweet spot over and over.

Eyes shut tight, she clutched his back, her blunt nails surely causing him pain as she tried to stifle a scream. Evidently Sherlock noticed. He pulled out and leaned up a couple of inches, causing Molly to whimper and open her eyes.

"I want to hear you, Molly. I want to make you scream." His tone was soft yet demanding. "Don't hold back with me… ever!"

She bit her lip as she nodded. Sherlock smirked as he moved back further, lifting her left leg over his shoulder. Turning his head, he kissed her ankle before reentering her, roughly. The new angle was spectacular. Molly instantly felt her walls start to contract. She hummed in appreciation, watching his face, his eyes locked onto hers as his hips snapped forward.

Sherlock pounded into her for several more minutes before he reached down, his thumb finding her clit. "You going to come for me, Molly?" he asked, panting as he stroked the bundle of nerves.

Molly whined, closing her eyes and stretching her hands over her head to grip the bed frame. She could feel herself starting to let go, her muscles were tightening, her nerve endings were tingling, her nipples were so taut they were almost painful. "God… Sherlock!" she moaned. "Harder!"

He sped up, snapping his hips against hers forcefully, and she was thankful that she had a hold of the headboard or else she'd probably have one hell of a headache. His thumb hadn't stopped, the pressure perfect as he continued to pound into her. Opening her eyes, she looked at him. It was all she needed to send her over the edge.

He looked possessed, overwhelmed with pleasure. There was no control, no facade, only ecstasy.

Molly screamed her release into the room, calling out his name over and over until her throat was sore, her voice hoarse. At some point during her climax, Sherlock had dropped her leg off of his shoulder, pressing his body against hers completely as he spilled himself inside of her. His orgasm was punctuated with whispers of ' _I love you. God, how I love you. Oh, yes, Molly, yes. I love you'_  in between gasping breaths.

Sherlock moved almost immediately to her side after he finished and Molly couldn't stop her whine at the loss. His weight, his warmth, his cock, had been comforting and not at all unwelcomed. Without missing a beat, Sherlock pulled her to his side and grabbed the folded blanket off the end of the bed to cover them both. They lay there for several minutes, regaining their breath before speaking.

Sherlock leant up, glancing at the clock, and said, "Happy New Year, by the way."

Molly didn't look, just took his word for it. She had totally lost track of time (or what day it was, for that matter) in the midst of all the drinking, game playing and confessions. Turning and placing a kiss on his chest, Molly asked, "What number did you make it to?"

He chuckled. "I, ah, lost count there at the end. Upwards of fifty, I think."

She smoothed her hand over his ribs, hugging him close. At some point, she had figured out what he was doing but wanted to confirm it. "You were counting firsts, weren't you?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed.

"God, that's adorable."

"I'll thank you to keep that to yourself, Molly Hooper. I have a reputation to uphold. Being known as adorable would  _not_ strike fear into the hearts of London's criminals." He kissed the top of her head.

She giggled. "It'll be our little secret." Raising up to look at him, she sobered before saying, "I love you, Sherlock." Yes, she had said it before, but under duress and just after calling him a bastard. To her, this felt like the first time. She cupped his cheek with her hand. "I have always loved you in one way or another and I do believe that I always will."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes dancing. "I'm counting that as 'one'."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Drop me a review and let me know what you think! I know I've been a horrible writer the last few stories and not great about returning my comment, but RL has been a bit out of control lately. I promise to be better. Love y'all! ~Lil~


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